The Promise of Provence (Love in Provence Book 1)

by Patricia Sands

  The first ride was not far: along the ramparts, past the anthropological museum with its impressive display of artifacts and the park where afternoon games of boules are played, to Rue Albert Premier.

  They stopped in front of an elegant white early-twentieth-century apartment building, locked their bikes, and climbed an elegant staircase to the third floor.

  He showed Katherine around a spacious, comfortably furnished four-bedroom apartment with a large terrace. “This is where my parents lived when they were elderly, and Adorée and I moved in here after we lost Geneviève. This is what Adorée calls home.”

  Back on their bikes, they cycled along the road bordering the sea, past Pointe Bacon, and then turned uphill onto the Cap d’Antibes. Large estates adjoined lots with smaller simple homes and then there was everything in between. Many properties were hidden by tall hedges, and at one such lot, they stopped before a locked gate.

  Opening the gate, they rode their bikes down a long dirt lane, apparently infrequently used as grass and wildflowers grew tall in the middle. Overgrown flowering shrubs and bushes tumbled into their path and brushed against them before they arrived at a rambling villa, partially in disrepair.

  “This property has been in my family since before the Revolution. Originally part of a much larger piece of land, it was an orchard and farm for over one hundred years. The orchard was eventually sold to several other families who built homes. My great-grandfather built this house and kept a small farm garden. The house was added to over the decades. That’s why it rambles as it does.”

  “It’s such a beautiful property—and the view! How did it come to be abandoned?”

  “France has some archaic inheritance laws. After my grandfather died, my uncles fought over it and tied up the case in the courts for the rest of their lives. How smart was that?”

  Katherine shook her head. “I’ve read about situations like that in novels but never imagined it was that bad.”

  “About ten years ago, everything was finally resolved and the property passed to me. Geneviève and I had plans to fix it up and open a small inn. We had just begun to clear the overgrowth and restore the house when she became ill.”

  Katherine put her hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry. You don’t have to talk about it if it’s painful.”

  He took her hand, pressing it to his lips.

  I could get used to this.

  “It’s painful, but I do want to talk about it. You make me want to talk about things I haven’t mentioned in years.”

  The house had an intricate alarm system; he explained squatters could be a problem in the area.

  He continued to tell her about his hopes for the hauntingly beautiful house and property as he carefully led her through areas where beams had fallen and walls crumbled.

  “After I met you in Provence, you were so full of life, so in love with France. You got me thinking. I began to come back here and slowly do work. You see—you inspired me.”

  “And I had no idea.”

  The kitchen area was barely useable, and in one corner there was a cot.

  “I sometimes stay here when I’m working on the property. Now I want to be here again.”

  They walked out through fragile French doors into what must have once been a vast and magnificent garden. Gasping at what she could see was splendor begging to be rescued, Katherine identified many plant species among the woody and brambly overgrowth.

  Climbing rosebushes had a stranglehold on a rotting arbor that now tipped to a sad angle but still was an ornate piece of workmanship. Massive twisting trunks of wisteria were hidden behind intrusive, shallow-rooted wild pepper vines that she knew could be so easily yanked from the soil.

  “Let’s work on this before I go back home. I would love to help you begin to recover this garden.”

  He looked at her, saying nothing at first. A slow smile transformed his face, and his eyes shone with contentment.

  “Allons-y!” he said.

  “Let’s do it!”

  She would never have believed two weeks could simply vanish in bliss.

  The mornings were hers, as Philippe left at 7:00 a.m. to organize his stand at the market and tend to his customers.

  Joyfully laborious afternoons were spent working in the gardens and planning how the final outcome might look. There was a small semblance of order appearing around the grounds and an impressive collection of empty wine bottles gathering on the pantry counter.

  Lying squashed on the cot in the kitchen or sitting with their legs dangling off the wooden counter, they talked long into many nights. Conversation between them flowed easily as they shared their thoughts and interests and swatted mosquitoes. They were surprised to discover they shared similar tastes on topics like books, history, and concern about world affairs. Simple pleasures made them both content. Philippe’s quiet humor was ever present, and Katherine was aware of the absence of sarcasm—something she had heard from James on a regular basis.

  Philippe revealed his dreams, once buried along with Geneviève, for the property and the possibilities he envisioned of transforming the house to a small inn. He encouraged Katherine to share her ideas as together they began to bring it all to life.

  As he listened to her, Philippe knew he wanted only to be with her, to have her body leaning into his, their arms around each other.

  Other afternoons they took liberating motorcycle trips into the hills, riding far and fast and feeling such a sense of freedom.

  “Trust me,” he encouraged as he took her on steeply winding climbs. She thought about how she was beginning to trust him in so many ways that had nothing to do with the motorcycle.

  Spreading a blanket under ancient abandoned olive trees on secluded hilltops along their routes, they made love or simply talked, their silences often just as meaningful. The panoramas stretching before them were as memorable as the moments they gave each other.

  After the first exciting and out-of-control nights, their lovemaking felt comfortable and satisfying. They knew their desires were arising from mutual respect and a deeper caring that comes with age as well as from physical attraction and stores of passion that had been hidden away for a very long time. Listening to each other, they were equal partners in this passion.

  This intimacy felt new to Katherine and brought into focus how she and James had been more like roommates for a very, very long time.

  At one point she realized she had stopped being concerned about her age. She felt strong and confident and recently had smiled as she looked at herself in the mirror and recalled the old skin-care advertising campaign—“You’re not getting older, you’re getting better.” Her skin glowed. Her blue eyes had a brightness that had been lost for years. The fact that more white and gray hair was mingling with the blond didn’t seem to matter. Most of the time she simply lost herself in moments where age faded away.

  One day they rode to the goat-cheese supplier and ate the most basic and delicious meal: green salad with toasts covered in melted chèvre, prosciutto made from the farm’s own stock and sliced so thinly you could almost see through it and served with fresh baguette, followed by the newest of chèvre, accompanied by lavender honey and an apple tarte. Everything was served simply on rustic slabs of olive wood.

  Philippe explained the differences between the new and old chèvre. To hear the farmer describe it and watch the actual process, handed down for generations, was fascinating. The men spoke of the frustrations cheese makers were suffering with many unnecessary changes the European Union regulations were demanding.

  “Who says the old ways are not the best?” the farmer asked.

  Some of the structures on the farm dated to the sixteenth century, and with the seemingly isolated and wild setting, high in the hills, one had a sense of time travel.

  The goats displayed a certain beauty, with majestic curved horns and coats of burnished copper and rich brown tinged with beige. They wandered freely along with some of the most gigantic pigs Katherine had ever seen.r />
  Philippe smiled knowingly when she described how captivated she was by the place. She could tell it pleased him to see she appreciated his world.

  Mirella and her husband brought Joy to Antibes for a day. The visitors stayed overnight with Philippe at his apartment, and their dinner at a favorite bistro featured a few champagne toasts as they celebrated the happy reunion.

  Joy confided in Katherine that she had not seen Philippe so happy in all the years he had been alone. “I think you have been a very good tonic for him, ma chère. How I wish we could keep you here.”

  Katherine nodded. “I will miss all of you, and I promise to return. How could I not? I feel torn, but I know I have to get back to my real world. I have a new job waiting for me.”

  That night, Philippe remained at his apartment with his guests, and Katherine became painfully aware of how quickly she had accepted his presence in her bed, in her thoughts, in her heart. This had not been part of her new life plan. She never wanted to be vulnerable to the hurt and deceit she had endured with James. She hadn’t been certain she could trust anyone again, and she had reached a point of feeling happy alone before she met Philippe. Now she felt even happier with him and acutely felt his absence.

  It’s just as well I’m leaving before I get in any deeper. Wait, could it get any deeper?

  As the lovers had agreed after that first night of passion, they had not spoken much about what was happening between them. In their most intimate moments they had, at first with hesitation, expressed feelings and whispered desires, but never projected into the future.

  There were looks and touches that transmitted signals so deeply they simply could not be missed. Each time something held one thought captive.

  In spite of the emotional expressions, soft voices, passionate responses—why does every word sound so beautiful with a French accent?—the words “I love you” had not been heard.

  Katherine had blurted this to Molly during one of their Skype chats, and Molly’s raspy chortle and words had stayed with her. “Katski, in my humble opinion, saying ‘I love you’ is so yesterday. Don’t get hung up on it. The way Philippe behaves with you, respects you, hears you, and makes you feel—that’s what really counts. That’s where the love shows. If you feel that love when you have your clothes on, then I’m betting what you feel when you get physical is magic. Here endeth the gospel according to moi.”

  “You know, Moll. I sometimes remember how James would say he loved me even though I know now he was cheating on me. So, yeah, really, how important is it?”

  Philippe did make her feel respected and special. She felt she offered the same to him. They had not tried to determine if they were taking down the protective walls each had put up after their own particular disasters. They had just been.

  There were moments she shivered with delight and embraced completely the joy of what they shared. There were other moments she felt paralyzed with fear that this was too good to be true.

  In her final week, Katherine bade good-bye to her bridge group, which had a laughter-filled surprise party for her. She bised her hiking and conversation group and thanked them for making her so welcome. The cycling group also had a festive send-off for her after the last Tuesday-evening ride, teasing her about how she would miss her friend Philippe. She wondered how they would feel if they knew he was spending every night with her.

  56

  Katherine had requested fish soup for lunch at Nounou before they spent her last afternoon at Philippe’s property.

  She filled load after load into a wheelbarrow as she clipped and dug and cleared another swath of overgrown flowerbeds. Philippe emptied the brush on the fire burning in the large open area behind the house, along with larger tree limbs he was attacking.

  The mellow, smoky smell of the wood fire brought back childhood memories to Katherine of blissful weekends spent with her parents and Andrea’s family on their farm.

  Who can predict where life will take us? As a child, I had dreams. As an adult, I thought my life was settled. It was what it was. I looked forward to things like holidays, times with family, but I stopped dreaming. Now, like a child, I’m filled with dreams again. Here everything fills me with . . . le plaisir . . .

  When he returned the empty barrow this time, Philippe removed his work gloves. She looked at him and smiled, smudging her face slightly as she brushed her hair back.

  “Time for a break?” she asked, pulling off her gardening gloves and stretching her back as she rose from her kneeling position in the dirt.

  He gently laid a hand on each side of her face, his eyes determined and sure. “Stay here, Katherine. Don’t go.”

  Somewhere deep inside, she knew these were words she longed to hear. Something deep inside could not let her say the words she longed to say.

  “I’m afraid.”

  He pulled her into his arms. “I’m ready to take a chance.”

  They remained like that for several moments.

  “I want to stay with you. I can’t imagine being without you. But I’m so afraid.”

  “We are battling the same demons.”

  Taking her hand, he led her down to a point where they had placed a dilapidated, sun-bleached wooden loveseat discovered buried in overgrown brush in a remote corner of the property. Overlooking the spectacular bay and beaches of La Garoupe, the turquoise water shimmered in the late October sun. The warmth of summer still lingered in this year of unusual and unpredictable weather patterns.

  This year of unusual and unpredictable life patterns.

  Holding nothing back, they laid bare the fears that haunted them from the past. Their exchange was raw and honest about the hurt, the damage, the struggle, the need to feel protected from any remote chance of recurrence.

  “I want so much to trust what we have found together,” he said. “I’m beginning to feel I can do that in a way I never believed I would.”

  “I have to go back home. I have a new job waiting, a house to take care of . . .” Tears streamed down her cheeks as her words stuttered out. “This has been like a dream, and I’m afraid dreams don’t come true. I don’t really know how to believe in them. Maybe we need some time apart to see how we feel then.”

  Philippe sat staring at the ground, his hands hanging between his knees.

  “I don’t want to let go of this. I’m afraid if you go, we will lose what we have.”

  Katherine could barely speak now. “I don’t want to lose what we have either . . .”

  They sat in silence, lost in their thoughts.

  “Promise you will come back—soon,” he whispered.

  Katherine nodded silently. First . . . yes. Then . . . no. “That . . . that will be difficult with my new job—at least until the spring. Perhaps you can come to Toronto.”

  “I will.”

  Side by side, bodies molded, gazing at the movement of the sea and the boats gracefully gliding by but seeing none of it, Philippe and Katherine sat; his fingers lightly caressed her back.

  Katherine’s mind kept replaying everything that called to her about this part of the world, about the person she was here, about the way she was learning to love like she never had before.

  I’ve been a different person during this time, but somehow I feel like I have never been more myself. Whether it’s forever should not be the issue. I want to keep living in the moment in a way I never have before. Why can’t I take one more step and do it?

  Their plan had been to cycle to a favorite secluded cove with a picnic they had decided upon the day before and prepared after an early-morning stop at the market, where Philippe had left his associate in charge.

  Putting away the gardening tools and tidying the villa one last time, they were lost in their own thoughts and acceptance of the reality of this day. Soon they were on their bikes, riding a short distance along the coastal road.

  At the side of the road, there was a plaque on a stand showing a print of a painting by Claude Monet that captured Antibes across the bay. The arti
st had worked in that very spot. Katherine loved how there were such plaques all along the Riviera.

  This was a popular place for the fortunate few who arrived before the space was taken. Down a narrow, barely visible path and around a slight bend was another small cove with just enough room for two people to sit on rocks smoothed by waves during more turbulent times.

  Sitting unseen from anywhere else, the view was that of Monet’s painting with the glistening water of the sea leading the eye to the stone buildings and ancient towers of the old town, appearing golden in the late-afternoon sun. Set against the backdrop of rolling hills behind which the setting sun would slowly sink in a blaze of pinks and reds, Katherine knew it was her most favorite view.

  Even today, confused and conflicted as I am, this view fills me with such a sense of beauty and peace.

  They shared a light menu and slowly sipped champagne. Katherine had banished the painful memories long before. Baguette, foie gras, with a decadently creamy Délice de Bourgogne. Succulent figs followed, accompanied by a Roquefort Papillon Noir, the clean and forceful flavor Philippe had once declared was “an emotional experience.”

  Between bursts of conversation and moments of silence, they wished time would stand still.

  Reminiscing about their first meeting in Sainte-Mathilde, both chuckled at the memory of Katherine thinking the other Philippe was the one who left the flowers. They expressed amazement again at the coincidence of Katherine finding herself in Antibes and discovering each other once more.

  “I felt your special qualities in Provence,” Philippe told her, “but I also knew we would never see each other again.”

  Katherine confessed that she had experienced similar thoughts.

  “Whatever this is, whatever we have found, we have to hold on to now. We have to see how this will fit into our real worlds,” Katherine said at length.

  “Perhaps fate put us together to show us we can take down our walls. We can find happiness again. Maybe that is what this was . . . une affaire de coeur,” Philippe said, sounding unconvinced.